


Interwoven

by Fallowfield



Category: Naruto, Naruto Shippuden
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 05:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17892290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallowfield/pseuds/Fallowfield
Summary: Catch me on twitter @fallofield!





	Interwoven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jarofactonbell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofactonbell/gifts).



The summertime colored the evening, painting lazy strokes across the sky with its wide brush. The golden light struck the violet night with a violent flourish, streaking blood across the canvas.

The sun smiled serenely as it laid down its head, but its armies of light wouldn’t let him set aside his crown so easily. They captured the stars and ransomed their light, though the day already had its share. But the stars lay stoic, refusing to yield. Madara understood this clash too well, but yet he couldn’t spite the sun.

The stone guardians gazed down at him every time he scaled the wall. Once. Twice. Thrice. Were they counting? Madara paused for a moment and stared back defiantly. It seemed like the entire empire of Konoha was watching. Why did he choose to endure this? But there were times the sun and the moon shared the sky.

This time of year the roses exploded into color, stretching across their lattices. The petals were delicate, blushing, but they couldn’t help but steal glances at their love. Nothing felt better than his golden rays. Madara frowned. The thorns made climbing more of a chore.

But as he reached the balcony, he perched on the banister and sighed, wiping away the beads of blood. He stared down at a rose that stretched up towards him through the slats. It was a perfect bloom.

Hashirama was so still, Madara suspected he may have fallen asleep sitting up. Nodding off while meditating wouldn’t be a surprise for him. Madara didn’t notice himself smiling as he stepped silently through the plants arranged around the balcony and stood in the doorway.

Hashirama was striking. His kimono embraced him, woven by angels. The flickering light of the candles reflected off his hair, which cascaded to the floor, folding over itself as it reached the carpet. His arms rested on his knees, swallowed in his wide silk sleeves. He could have been a statue of a god, there, a flickering candle himself.

The light reflected in Madara’s eyes for a moment, then he stepped inside, bent forward, and tucked the rose above Hashirama’s ear.

Those dark eyes, with their lush lashes, opened and gazed up at his familiar intruder.

“You fell asleep again.”

“Emperors don’t fall asleep when they meditate, Mads.”

“You fell asleep again.” Madara’s face didn’t change, but Hashirama knew him well enough. The emperor lifted his hands apologetically, the fabric rippling around him. He tilted his head to the side and shut his eyes. The smile flickered, then flared, spreading across his face.

His laugh melted Madara, who just continued to gaze down at him through his lashes.

“You picked one of my roses.”

Madara finally broke, smirking and kneeling next to him. “They’re wasted out there. Who gets to look at them?”

Hashirama leaned toward him, the eye of a cyclone of silk. “I do, you idiot!” But he was still laughing.

“I think it’s better suited there.” His delivery was flat, but Hashirama was still struck by the tender note.

“Well.” Hashirama brushed his fingers along the stem behind his ear. “At least someone will look at it there, huh.” His comment may have been arresting if it weren’t for the fact he burst into laughter again.

Then he paused, lifting his head. He held Madara’s hand, palm up, then placed his other hand on top of it. “It’s amazing you like them so when they injure you.”

In truth, Madara didn’t mind. The thorns’ aggression disclosed the deep vitality of the roses. He was attracted to things that had such life, especially in times when he felt the mortality of everything around him. His world was ossifying. He was glad he didn’t have to walk through the palace, lonely and cavernous in the dark.

But he just shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

The emperor kissed his hand. Madara froze, not expecting such a gesture. Hashirama pressed Madara’s hand between his, then looked up at him, for once not laughing, his eyes earnest and somehow completely at ease.

“You’re so stiff, you know. You should meditate more.”

Madara would have melted anyway, but Hashirama then gave a contented sigh and dipped forward against him. He was unprepared for the impact and almost tipped one of the candles.

The sweep of Hashirama’s hair against his skin made him shiver. It rippled with the silk, and its touch was like dipping his hand in the bath. Madara hoped Hashi didn’t notice that his heart began to race, goaded by the sweet scent of the rose.

This time Madara wasn’t a satellite, and he felt the weight of the atmosphere. The empire’s eyes were a shallow depth away. But his hands were already damp, and it felt like nothing else.

Maybe he could let down his guard for a just moment, and step into that bath.

x-x-x-x-x

Hashirama’s bed was a garden, and he opened his eyes, the sun shining on his face, the silks the lush earth around him.

They were children again, combing the creekbed, their fingers stained cold from the water. There was Madara, as always, precise hands, calculating eyes. The water twirled ribbons around their ankles. The same ribbons grew with the grass, weaving around them as they pointed up at the clouds.

The years ebbed and flowed, washing the soil downriver. He thought he’d seen every possible shape in Madara’s hands, like the shapes they saw in the clouds. Time was water, but it was also wood, regimented into beams. There were no longer afternoons searching for the perfect stone. Hashirama was surrounded by the artificial structure of empire. It was no soil to nourish the creative whims of children. No wind reached them in these rooms at all.

Did the trees also think back to their days as saplings, when the wind would bend them? But now, tall and master of the wind, all they could notice is they hadn’t yet touched the sky. 

He was thankful that time hadn’t taken him away. Some people are left with no reminders. Hashirama had an empire, but Madara was somehow more vast, more unexplored than any land could be. No amount of time could change him. And he was the only one who would fully meet his gaze, with all the force of his eyes.

But now, here Madara lay, asleep and perfectly still, the shadow of Hashirama’s kiss still on his lips. Hashirama hadn’t ever seen him so peaceful. He always had some sort of storm brewing. But that was the beauty of it. The bleeding sky marking the horizon and always inhaling, exhaling.

Hashirama was stricken. Somehow this blow was swifter than any Madara dealt in combat. That strange threshold where harsh met delicate. His firm jaw, his lips, like a painting. His hard brow, his feathery lashes. They were breathtaking against the backdrop of the silk sleeve, which he’d made his pillow.

How could he rip his eyes from such art? Hashirama knew he was already making his brother wait. He could feel the impatient but unsurprised energy from the floors below.

“Mads….” His whisper could never have made him stir.

Hashirama propped himself up, looking down at him. He’d rarely seen Madara sleep. His clan was rife with insomnia. His brow flickered. Maybe he was dreaming.

“Now we can’t have Tobirama coming to look for me.” He spoke softly, smiling lightly at the chaos it would cause. 

His hand fluttered to Madara’s face, but there was no way he had the heart to rouse him. Instead it fell to sweep his hair behind his ear, passing the rose onto him. “But we can’t be waking you either.”

His sigh filled the room. If he shut his eyes, could he be looking up to see the grass again, glazed golden by the sunlight? Could he see their hair woven in the blades as the sun put them to sleep?

But here he was. He saw no other option. He reached back and grasped the blade, then cut the sleeve with one smooth motion. He couldn’t risk waking Madara.

Then he stood, the silk tumbling around him, one arm hidden in its spilling sleeve, the other bare up to his elbow. But he smiled, shrugging. What a shame. Then he turned and padded out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on twitter @fallofield!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Entwined](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18108197) by [tothemovies (jarofactonbell)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofactonbell/pseuds/tothemovies)




End file.
